Even in the most difficult times and unexpected places, Christ’s mercy is enough for us all.

Vicar Emily Beckering
Tenth Sunday after Pentecost, Lectionary 18 A     
   Text: Matthew 15:10-28 

In the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen.

After hearing that gospel, we may be left wondering where in that there was good news. It can be shocking to hear Jesus speak this way. Can this really be our Lord who seemingly so reluctantly offers his compassion to this woman who only asks for her daughter to be healed?

We are not the only ones to have been shocked by Jesus’ behavior or his teachings. The disciples, the Pharisees, or anyone else in that crowd would have been equally as surprised to watch this interaction between Jesus and the Canaanite woman.  Racial stereotypes and mutual disdain characterized the relations between Jews and Gentiles, and “dog” was a familiar derogatory term. Whereas it would have made perfect sense to the crowds for Jesus to say that he was only sent to the Jews, and that it wasn’t fair to give this woman what God had promised to Israel, the crowds would not have expected Jesus to engage the woman or to praise her faith. By the end of this encounter, however, Jesus turns expectations on their head.

In today’s gospel, Jesus challenges the Pharisees’ and the disciples’ notions of who God is for them and for all people. Today, our Lord Jesus does the same for us. He meets us in this gospel in order to challenge our beliefs and to quiet our fears about the limits of God’s mercy. God’s mercy is wide enough, God’s love broad enough, for us and for all.

We cannot separate this story from the rest of Matthew’s gospel or from whom Jesus has revealed himself to be on the cross. 

Mercy is central to the gospel of Matthew and core to Jesus’ proclamation and teaching. The same Jesus who speaks so harshly to the Canaanite woman is the One who told a parable of the unforgiving servant who when rebuked, was asked, “Should you not have had mercy on your fellow servant as I had mercy on you?” (Mt. 18:33). This is the Jesus who taught Peter to forgive not seven, but seventy-seven times (Mt. 18:22). This is the Jesus who, when he heard the Pharisees ask why he was eating with tax collectors and sinners replied, “Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick. Go and learn what this means, ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice,’ for I have come to call not the righteous but sinners” (Mt. 9:12-13). And in the end, Jesus gives the commission to baptize people of every nation (Mt. 28:19).

Jesus doesn’t restrict his mercy; he doesn’t reduce people to judgment. Instead, as we have heard throughout this summer, Jesus scatters seeds with abandon, lets the weeds grow with the wheat, gives rain to the righteous and the unrighteous, and catches people of every kind, welcoming them to live in the kingdom of God.

In this encounter with the Canaanite woman, Jesus enacts his parables. He offers mercy rather than demands sacrifice. He illustrates what he just taught the crowd in the first 10 verses of today’s gospel: it is not what goes into the mouth that defiles a person, but what comes out of the mouth—that which comes from the heart—that defiles. The Canaanite woman is the embodiment of this teaching. Where she comes from, what she eats, and her ethnicity ultimately do not matter. What counts is her heart, which Jesus can see. In that heart, she holds an unwavering faith in Jesus’ mercy. She knows who he is, what he is all about, and by persisting until her daughter is healed, she holds him accountable to be who he has revealed himself to be, not only for Israel, but for all people.

The woman is like Moses who reminded God to be faithful to Israel by forgiving, rather than punishing them for the golden calf (Ex. 32:7-14). She is like Abraham who petitioned until God agreed to be merciful to Sodom if 50, then 40, then 30, or only 10 righteous people remained in the city (Gen. 18:16-33). She is prophetic in that her faith reveals that God is a God of mercy. She didn’t have to deny the place of the chosen people in God’s story in order to claim her own. Instead, she honors it and uses it as the basis of her faith. She understands that although mercy starts with Israel, it cannot end there because of the very nature of God. The woman knows that the foundation of Israel’s relationship with God is God’s decision to be merciful, which is what Moses learned when God told him: “I will be gracious to whom I will be gracious, and will show mercy on whom I will show mercy” (Ex. 33:19; Rom. 9:15).

This is who the Triune God has decided to be and how the Trinity has chosen to relate to us—through mercy: by responding to our brokenness with forgiveness, our hatred with love, our rejection with acceptance.  God will be merciful because God is gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.

God will show mercy! We can’t control it, we can’t contain it!

This story exposes the ways in which we behave as if there are some people who are beyond the scope of God’s love, Christ’s forgiveness, or the power of the Holy Spirit. 

We do not harbor animosity for an entire ethnic group; our ways of limiting God’s mercy are much more nuanced than that. It happens when we withhold love and forgiveness, when we judge others as unworthy of representing Christ, or when we assume that there are some people through whom God can’t possibly work.

Who might our Canaanite woman be? The serial rapist? The fundamentalist? The bigot? Through this woman, God confronts us with anyone and everyone whom we have excluded, criticized, or condemned. Everyone who offends us. The people who we don’t have time for because they rub us the wrong way. The people who we refuse to forgive because they have hurt us or those whom we love and they don’t deserve it.

But to withhold our love or forgiveness, to refuse relationship, and to define ourselves against others is to live in opposition to who Christ has called us to be. These old ways of defining ourselves and others are dead. We don’t get to choose who is in and who is out. We don’t get to choose whom we love or whom we forgive. As Paul writes in his second letter to the Corinthians, “For the love of Christ urges us on, because we are convinced that one has died for all; therefore all have died” (2 Cor. 5:14).

Today, Christ offers us a new way to live and his love urges us on. 

We are not to be the church of our own whims and preferences, but rather the church of Jesus Christ. We are to scatter seeds, offer forgiveness, and give grace even when—and perhaps especially when—it doesn’t make sense or it isn’t deserved.

We can’t restrict God’s mercy. We can’t control it. We can’t contain it. But we can cling to it.

We can cling to it just like the Canaanite woman who was convinced that God’s mercy was enough for Israel and for her daughter and herself. Because Christ has died, all have died, and so we trust that God’s mercy is for everyone and that Christ is enough to redeem every situation.

Clinging to Christ’s mercy might mean that when we are tempted to write that person off at the office or the one who lives down the block, as completely ignorant and unworthy of our time, that this time, we make time, and make an effort not only to better understand that individual, but to open ourselves to the possibility that God might have something for us to learn from that person.

Clinging to Christ’s mercy might mean that rather than giving up and cutting ourselves off from that family member who always makes us feel foolish, unappreciated, or like we are less than, that we reach out to that person instead and try once again to build a relationship.

Clinging to Christ’s mercy might mean that when we are confronted with that Christian who, according to our standards, could not be further from the truth or represent our Lord any less accurately, that we trust that God can work in them, too, and that that person is Christ for the world, in ways that we can’t or won’t be.

Trusting in Christ’s mercy means that whenever we feel like holding back, we risk forgiving anyway, making room in our hearts anyway, and giving ourselves a chance to see how God is at work.

But when we fail to do this, as we have and will, Christ’s mercy is for us, too. 

No one is outside God’s love—not even us—broken as we are. Others’ judgments or criticisms of us—no matter how valid—don’t have the last word.

Of this we can be certain: God is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love. We can cling to this when we fear for our loved ones who don’t believe or when we fear for ourselves because we know how far we stray. We can pray with complete confidence, “Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner,” and trust that he will, that we are forgiven, just as he promised.

We can trust that Christ will heal us and keep changing us, making us new, until we do reflect him—the One who gave his life for all and the One who now invites us here to this table, where no one is a dog and there are no crumbs because his mercy is enough for us all.

Amen. 

Even in the most difficult times and unexpected places, Christ’s mercy is enough for us all.

Vicar Emily Beckering
Tenth Sunday after Pentecost, Lectionary 18 A     
   Text: Matthew 15:10-28 

In the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen.

After hearing that gospel, we may be left wondering where in that there was good news. It can be shocking to hear Jesus speak this way. Can this really be our Lord who seemingly so reluctantly offers his compassion to this woman who only asks for her daughter to be healed?

We are not the only ones to have been shocked by Jesus’ behavior or his teachings. The disciples, the Pharisees, or anyone else in that crowd would have been equally as surprised to watch this interaction between Jesus and the Canaanite woman.  Racial stereotypes and mutual disdain characterized the relations between Jews and Gentiles, and “dog” was a familiar derogatory term. Whereas it would have made perfect sense to the crowds for Jesus to say that he was only sent to the Jews, and that it wasn’t fair to give this woman what God had promised to Israel, the crowds would not have expected Jesus to engage the woman or to praise her faith. By the end of this encounter, however, Jesus turns expectations on their head.

In today’s gospel, Jesus challenges the Pharisees’ and the disciples’ notions of who God is for them and for all people. Today, our Lord Jesus does the same for us. He meets us in this gospel in order to challenge our beliefs and to quiet our fears about the limits of God’s mercy. God’s mercy is wide enough, God’s love broad enough, for us and for all.

We cannot separate this story from the rest of Matthew’s gospel or from whom Jesus has revealed himself to be on the cross. 

Mercy is central to the gospel of Matthew and core to Jesus’ proclamation and teaching. The same Jesus who speaks so harshly to the Canaanite woman is the One who told a parable of the unforgiving servant who when rebuked, was asked, “Should you not have had mercy on your fellow servant as I had mercy on you?” (Mt. 18:33). This is the Jesus who taught Peter to forgive not seven, but seventy-seven times (Mt. 18:22). This is the Jesus who, when he heard the Pharisees ask why he was eating with tax collectors and sinners replied, “Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick. Go and learn what this means, ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice,’ for I have come to call not the righteous but sinners” (Mt. 9:12-13). And in the end, Jesus gives the commission to baptize people of every nation (Mt. 28:19).

Jesus doesn’t restrict his mercy; he doesn’t reduce people to judgment. Instead, as we have heard throughout this summer, Jesus scatters seeds with abandon, lets the weeds grow with the wheat, gives rain to the righteous and the unrighteous, and catches people of every kind, welcoming them to live in the kingdom of God.

In this encounter with the Canaanite woman, Jesus enacts his parables. He offers mercy rather than demands sacrifice. He illustrates what he just taught the crowd in the first 10 verses of today’s gospel: it is not what goes into the mouth that defiles a person, but what comes out of the mouth—that which comes from the heart—that defiles. The Canaanite woman is the embodiment of this teaching. Where she comes from, what she eats, and her ethnicity ultimately do not matter. What counts is her heart, which Jesus can see. In that heart, she holds an unwavering faith in Jesus’ mercy. She knows who he is, what he is all about, and by persisting until her daughter is healed, she holds him accountable to be who he has revealed himself to be, not only for Israel, but for all people.

The woman is like Moses who reminded God to be faithful to Israel by forgiving, rather than punishing them for the golden calf (Ex. 32:7-14). She is like Abraham who petitioned until God agreed to be merciful to Sodom if 50, then 40, then 30, or only 10 righteous people remained in the city (Gen. 18:16-33). She is prophetic in that her faith reveals that God is a God of mercy. She didn’t have to deny the place of the chosen people in God’s story in order to claim her own. Instead, she honors it and uses it as the basis of her faith. She understands that although mercy starts with Israel, it cannot end there because of the very nature of God. The woman knows that the foundation of Israel’s relationship with God is God’s decision to be merciful, which is what Moses learned when God told him: “I will be gracious to whom I will be gracious, and will show mercy on whom I will show mercy” (Ex. 33:19; Rom. 9:15).

This is who the Triune God has decided to be and how the Trinity has chosen to relate to us—through mercy: by responding to our brokenness with forgiveness, our hatred with love, our rejection with acceptance.  God will be merciful because God is gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.

God will show mercy! We can’t control it, we can’t contain it!

This story exposes the ways in which we behave as if there are some people who are beyond the scope of God’s love, Christ’s forgiveness, or the power of the Holy Spirit. 

We do not harbor animosity for an entire ethnic group; our ways of limiting God’s mercy are much more nuanced than that. It happens when we withhold love and forgiveness, when we judge others as unworthy of representing Christ, or when we assume that there are some people through whom God can’t possibly work.

Who might our Canaanite woman be? The serial rapist? The fundamentalist? The bigot? Through this woman, God confronts us with anyone and everyone whom we have excluded, criticized, or condemned. Everyone who offends us. The people who we don’t have time for because they rub us the wrong way. The people who we refuse to forgive because they have hurt us or those whom we love and they don’t deserve it.

But to withhold our love or forgiveness, to refuse relationship, and to define ourselves against others is to live in opposition to who Christ has called us to be. These old ways of defining ourselves and others are dead. We don’t get to choose who is in and who is out. We don’t get to choose whom we love or whom we forgive. As Paul writes in his second letter to the Corinthians, “For the love of Christ urges us on, because we are convinced that one has died for all; therefore all have died” (2 Cor. 5:14).

Today, Christ offers us a new way to live and his love urges us on. 

We are not to be the church of our own whims and preferences, but rather the church of Jesus Christ. We are to scatter seeds, offer forgiveness, and give grace even when—and perhaps especially when—it doesn’t make sense or it isn’t deserved.

We can’t restrict God’s mercy. We can’t control it. We can’t contain it. But we can cling to it.

We can cling to it just like the Canaanite woman who was convinced that God’s mercy was enough for Israel and for her daughter and herself. Because Christ has died, all have died, and so we trust that God’s mercy is for everyone and that Christ is enough to redeem every situation.

Clinging to Christ’s mercy might mean that when we are tempted to write that person off at the office or the one who lives down the block, as completely ignorant and unworthy of our time, that this time, we make time, and make an effort not only to better understand that individual, but to open ourselves to the possibility that God might have something for us to learn from that person.

Clinging to Christ’s mercy might mean that rather than giving up and cutting ourselves off from that family member who always makes us feel foolish, unappreciated, or like we are less than, that we reach out to that person instead and try once again to build a relationship.

Clinging to Christ’s mercy might mean that when we are confronted with that Christian who, according to our standards, could not be further from the truth or represent our Lord any less accurately, that we trust that God can work in them, too, and that that person is Christ for the world, in ways that we can’t or won’t be.

Trusting in Christ’s mercy means that whenever we feel like holding back, we risk forgiving anyway, making room in our hearts anyway, and giving ourselves a chance to see how God is at work.

But when we fail to do this, as we have and will, Christ’s mercy is for us, too. 

No one is outside God’s love—not even us—broken as we are. Others’ judgments or criticisms of us—no matter how valid—don’t have the last word.

Of this we can be certain: God is gracious and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love. We can cling to this when we fear for our loved ones who don’t believe or when we fear for ourselves because we know how far we stray. We can pray with complete confidence, “Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner,” and trust that he will, that we are forgiven, just as he promised.

We can trust that Christ will heal us and keep changing us, making us new, until we do reflect him—the One who gave his life for all and the One who now invites us here to this table, where no one is a dog and there are no crumbs because his mercy is enough for us all.

Amen. 

We learn from Mary to say “yes” to God’s call, and to joyfully live into that yes with our lives, and we learn from Mary that it is God, not us, whose power transforms and upends the world through us.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
The festival of St. Mary, Mother of Our Lord
   text:  Luke 1:46-55

Sisters and brothers in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen

What might we learn from our sister Mary who walks with us on our journey of faith?

There are saints who live in our lives, model faith to us, teach faith to us, walk beside us in the flesh for part of our own journey, pray for us, love us, and are God’s love to us.  These continue to be our inspiration, our guide even after their path has left ours and we walk on without them.

The great saints of the Church are more remote to us, they can’t compete with such closeness, such life as those blessed ones we knew.  But the Church has lived for 2,000 years knowing that all the blessed saints continue to be our fellow travelers on our journey.  The crowd of witnesses surrounds us, walks with us: those near to our lives and those, like Mary, further away.  In the mystery of the Body of Christ, we know they celebrate Eucharist with us, but we don’t know how.  They are with us.

Like those whom we knew ourselves, these great saints of the Church are as important as teachers, as fellow travelers, as guides.  Not because they were more special than we, but because, like we, they walked the great journey of faith in the Triune God, blessed by the resurrection life of the Son of God, our Lord Christ.  They, like we, stumbled.  They, like we, were faithful.

What, then, might we learn from our sister Mary when we realize she still walks with us on our journey of faith?

Perhaps she can gently remind us that we can also answer “yes.”

God asked something of her, and she agreed.  She didn’t bargain.  She didn’t say, “I’m not qualified.”  Mary simply pointed out the biological difficulty: she was a virgin, so how she could bear a child?

Father Richard Rohr says this:

“[Mary’s] kind of yes does not come easily to us. It always requires that we let down some of our boundaries, and none of us like to do that. Mary somehow is able to calmly, wonderfully trust that Someone Else is in charge. All she asks is one simple clarifying question. Not if but how, and then she trusts the how even though it would seem quite unlikely.” [1]

Whatever we might speculate about why God chose Mary, this openness is the truly remarkable thing about her.  We know the many difficulties she would face with her yes, possible death, almost certain ostracism by her family, her betrothed.  But she said yes.

What might happen if we let Mary teach us such openness and trust?

We are called to bring the Good News of God’s love in Jesus into the world.  To let our lives be turned upside down by the Holy Spirit, changed utterly, that we become bearers of God’s love into the world.  That in our bodies, in our hands, in our voices, in our hearts, God’s incarnate Love might continue to be in the world.

Our sister Mary, walking alongside us, hears our Lord ask us her question: will you do this?  And she gently says, “say yes, without bargain, without argument”.  She says to us that it will be all right, because we can trust that Someone Else is in charge, and all will be well.  In our fear, our selfishness, our anxiety, our reluctance, this fellow companion calmly opens up the possibility that we could also be a part of God’s saving the world.

Perhaps Mary can also encourage us to see that God did bring life to the world through her.

She said “yes,” and God did what Mary was promised.  From the beginning, she knew and sang, in her beautiful song, that it would be “the Mighty One who does great things” for her.  Even in her yes, she claimed that strength: “Here am I, the servant of the Lord.”  She knew she wouldn’t be doing this, God would.

And with God’s gracious strength, we, too, will see God do wondrous things in us.  Our sister Mary’s life alongside us reminds us that even saying “yes” with confidence doesn’t stop the path from being difficult.  Mary’s path certainly wasn’t easy, nor should we expect ours to be.  Once we face the reality of what it might mean to be changed into Christ, our desire can weaken.  There will be times we are tempted to falter and believe God cannot do anything through us.

Mary speaks to us graciously, encouraging us to trust that God is charge, not us.  That this Spirit-changed life is lived in Christ, not in ourselves.  She reminds us that, as she stayed with her Son and Lord, that is where we need to be for our strength and life, to live out our “yes”.  To live the Word, to come to this great Meal of life and forgiveness, to seek out this body of Christ in which we are blessed to live, our fellow travelers in God’s community of love here.

This is how the Triune God will shape us to bear Christ in the world in our own flesh and blood.  To give us power and help to do what we say “yes” to, to forgive and bless us in our failure, that we might start bearing Christ into the world anew.

We rejoice in the mystery that our sister Mary is among those saints who surround us, pray for us, and support us.

The goodness and mercy of the Triune God is almost more than we can comprehend, that we are not left to walk alone, we are surrounded even by those who have passed through death into eternal life.

It is that Triune God whose call to us to be the same to others on their journey, to be Christ-bearers, love-bearers, that our sister encourages us to answer with a “yes”.  May the Holy Spirit likewise give us her courage and grace, for the sake of the world.

In the name of Jesus.  Amen

[1] Fr. Richard Rohr, Daily Meditation for August 3, 2014, https://cac.org/

We learn from Mary to say “yes” to God’s call, and to joyfully live into that yes with our lives, and we learn from Mary that it is God, not us, whose power transforms and upends the world through us.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
The festival of St. Mary, Mother of Our Lord
   text:  Luke 1:46-55

Sisters and brothers in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen

What might we learn from our sister Mary who walks with us on our journey of faith?

There are saints who live in our lives, model faith to us, teach faith to us, walk beside us in the flesh for part of our own journey, pray for us, love us, and are God’s love to us.  These continue to be our inspiration, our guide even after their path has left ours and we walk on without them.

The great saints of the Church are more remote to us, they can’t compete with such closeness, such life as those blessed ones we knew.  But the Church has lived for 2,000 years knowing that all the blessed saints continue to be our fellow travelers on our journey.  The crowd of witnesses surrounds us, walks with us: those near to our lives and those, like Mary, further away.  In the mystery of the Body of Christ, we know they celebrate Eucharist with us, but we don’t know how.  They are with us.

Like those whom we knew ourselves, these great saints of the Church are as important as teachers, as fellow travelers, as guides.  Not because they were more special than we, but because, like we, they walked the great journey of faith in the Triune God, blessed by the resurrection life of the Son of God, our Lord Christ.  They, like we, stumbled.  They, like we, were faithful.

What, then, might we learn from our sister Mary when we realize she still walks with us on our journey of faith?

Perhaps she can gently remind us that we can also answer “yes.”

God asked something of her, and she agreed.  She didn’t bargain.  She didn’t say, “I’m not qualified.”  Mary simply pointed out the biological difficulty: she was a virgin, so how she could bear a child?

Father Richard Rohr says this:

“[Mary’s] kind of yes does not come easily to us. It always requires that we let down some of our boundaries, and none of us like to do that. Mary somehow is able to calmly, wonderfully trust that Someone Else is in charge. All she asks is one simple clarifying question. Not if but how, and then she trusts the how even though it would seem quite unlikely.” [1]

Whatever we might speculate about why God chose Mary, this openness is the truly remarkable thing about her.  We know the many difficulties she would face with her yes, possible death, almost certain ostracism by her family, her betrothed.  But she said yes.

What might happen if we let Mary teach us such openness and trust?

We are called to bring the Good News of God’s love in Jesus into the world.  To let our lives be turned upside down by the Holy Spirit, changed utterly, that we become bearers of God’s love into the world.  That in our bodies, in our hands, in our voices, in our hearts, God’s incarnate Love might continue to be in the world.

Our sister Mary, walking alongside us, hears our Lord ask us her question: will you do this?  And she gently says, “say yes, without bargain, without argument”.  She says to us that it will be all right, because we can trust that Someone Else is in charge, and all will be well.  In our fear, our selfishness, our anxiety, our reluctance, this fellow companion calmly opens up the possibility that we could also be a part of God’s saving the world.

Perhaps Mary can also encourage us to see that God did bring life to the world through her.

She said “yes,” and God did what Mary was promised.  From the beginning, she knew and sang, in her beautiful song, that it would be “the Mighty One who does great things” for her.  Even in her yes, she claimed that strength: “Here am I, the servant of the Lord.”  She knew she wouldn’t be doing this, God would.

And with God’s gracious strength, we, too, will see God do wondrous things in us.  Our sister Mary’s life alongside us reminds us that even saying “yes” with confidence doesn’t stop the path from being difficult.  Mary’s path certainly wasn’t easy, nor should we expect ours to be.  Once we face the reality of what it might mean to be changed into Christ, our desire can weaken.  There will be times we are tempted to falter and believe God cannot do anything through us.

Mary speaks to us graciously, encouraging us to trust that God is charge, not us.  That this Spirit-changed life is lived in Christ, not in ourselves.  She reminds us that, as she stayed with her Son and Lord, that is where we need to be for our strength and life, to live out our “yes”.  To live the Word, to come to this great Meal of life and forgiveness, to seek out this body of Christ in which we are blessed to live, our fellow travelers in God’s community of love here.

This is how the Triune God will shape us to bear Christ in the world in our own flesh and blood.  To give us power and help to do what we say “yes” to, to forgive and bless us in our failure, that we might start bearing Christ into the world anew.

We rejoice in the mystery that our sister Mary is among those saints who surround us, pray for us, and support us.

The goodness and mercy of the Triune God is almost more than we can comprehend, that we are not left to walk alone, we are surrounded even by those who have passed through death into eternal life.

It is that Triune God whose call to us to be the same to others on their journey, to be Christ-bearers, love-bearers, that our sister encourages us to answer with a “yes”.  May the Holy Spirit likewise give us her courage and grace, for the sake of the world.

In the name of Jesus.  Amen

[1] Fr. Richard Rohr, Daily Meditation for August 3, 2014, https://cac.org/

What really challenges our faith is not doubt, but fear; the reason even a tiny bit of faith is enough is because it’s about the death-defeating, eternally loving Triune God in whom we believe, and what God can do, removing our fear and doing wonders through us.

Pr. Joseph G. Crippen
Ninth Sunday after Pentecost, Lectionary 19 A
texts:  Matthew 14:22-33; 1 Kings 19:9-18

Sisters and brothers in Christ, grace to you, and peace in the name of the Father, and of the + Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen

Is doubt really the main problem Elijah and Peter have?

Elijah has just stood alone on Mount Carmel against 400 screaming, dancing prophets of Baal, 400 with royal support and encouragement.  Elijah’s absolute trust in the one true God lets him stand before them; the power of fire from heaven consuming his altar and sacrifice shows there is only one God, the LORD of Israel, and no other.  This is a man of faith.

Peter, alone among his fellows, dares to speak to this being that looks like a ghost walking on the water.  He absolutely trusts his Lord and Master, stepping out into the wind and waves, alone walking on water while others cower.  This is a man of faith.

Yet Jesus says Peter’s problem is doubt; Elijah’s looks much the same.  Jesus gives Peter a new nickname, calls him “Littlefaith.”  “Littlefaith, why did you doubt?”

But is doubt the real problem?  The word for doubt carries connotations of “waver,” “hesitate.”  Maybe that’s what Jesus meant.

Because Elijah and Peter are filled with fear, not doubt.

Oddly, though 400 prophets didn’t frighten Elijah, the queen’s death warrant and threats against him did.  He fled into the wilderness, to Mount Horeb, afraid for his life.  Elijah is the greatest prophet Israel ever had.  Yet fear, not doubt, drives him to panic, to struggle with his faith, to run.

Peter doesn’t doubt, he walks on water in faith.  But he looks at the fierce wind, the high waves, and becomes terrified.  He sinks.  Peter, the acknowledged leader of Jesus’ disciples, is always the one who steps forward boldly.  Yet fear, not doubt, drives him to panic, to struggle with his faith, to sink.

There is a question of how much faith these two have, Elijah and Littlefaith.

Jesus once compared a little faith to a mustard seed.  We might’ve missed his point.  The disciples, weak in faith, come to Jesus; he tells them if they had faith only as big as a mustard seed they could uproot mountains.  (Matthew 17:20)  It’s tempting to think of faith this way, dwell on its size, assume more is better.  To compare ourselves to others, thinking they’ve got more than we do.

Maybe that’s not what Jesus meant.  Maybe the size of the faith is irrelevant, unimportant.  Mountains can be uprooted only by the power of God; maybe Jesus is saying God is the important thing, not the amount of faith.

Elijah and Peter are surprising, how quickly they act as if they have no faith.  How can such heroes falter: from a dominant performance on a mountaintop to quivering in a wilderness cave; from walking on water to sinking like a true “Rock”?  Maybe our mistake was thinking either of these were giants in the faith.

Jesus calls Peter “Littlefaith.”  That could just be the truth, about him, and Elijah.

All this suggests two important things.

If Elijah and Peter only had a little faith, the things they did are astonishing.  If they’re not faith giants but people who have only a tiny, seed-sized, faith, the great deeds both did, the honor two major faith traditions accord them thousands of years later, the faithful discipleship they lived, is even more impressive.  Jesus was right: even a tiny bit of faith goes a long way.

Second, fear is the great opponent of faith, of whatever size, not doubt.  Believers have had doubts for millennia and still lived in faith: Peter himself, Mother Teresa, Luther, even mentors we’ve known.  We worry about our own doubts, but we have seen that because people doubt doesn’t mean they don’t believe, that you can act in your faith even with doubts.

Fear is what has the ability to stop us in our tracks.

Fear can freeze what little faith we have, make us start to sink, or crawl into a cave.  Fear like Elijah’s, of a world where people attack innocents and seek to destroy others, a world we know well.  Fear like Peter’s, of external and internal circumstances, storms in the world outside, storms in our hearts.  Fear we aren’t good enough for God or for others, fear the world is out of control, fear of illness, fear of death, fear we cannot be loved, fear we aren’t loved.

Fear creates enemies that threaten us, enemies that weren’t there when we weren’t afraid, enemies that are real people, enemies that are thoughts in our head.  That’s what pushes faith away.  Elijah and Peter don’t doubt God – both cry out to God in their situations – their fear is what immobilizes them.

In the end, Elijah and Peter had just enough faith to say, “Lord, save me.”

In the depth of fear, they called out to God for help, knew where to turn in darkest terror.  They only had a little faith, a tiny grain, but it was enough.  That’s when they heard, “don’t be afraid.  I am with you.”

Elijah is so afraid he needs it twice, to hear the LORD God is with him.  He’s promised retirement, told whom he will anoint as his successor.  God says, “I know, it’s been tough.  So you’re coming to the end of your service, I’ll give it to someone else.”  Afraid, he receives comfort, strength, and promise of rest.

When the disciples are afraid of ghosts, Jesus says, “Be of courage, it is I.  Don’t be afraid.”  Peter acts in that courage.  When, afraid, he starts to sink, he calls out in faith, and finds a hand reached out, a beloved voice speaking.  Yes, the voice calls him “Littlefaith.”  But the hand pulls him up out of the water, into the safety of the boat.

Jesus looks at you and at me today, and says, “Littlefaith, why do you hesitate?  Take heart, it is I.  Don’t be afraid.”

“Littlefaith” isn’t an insult, it’s just the truth.  We don’t have much faith.  That’s OK.  It is the God in whom that little faith is lodged who has the power and ability to change the world, to love evil back into good, to turn death into life.

Our faith is little, but it’s always enough because it’s never been about what we have, what we bring, what we can do.  It’s always been about the Triune God who made heaven and earth and who wants to heal this broken, terrifying world.  Whatever frightens us, from within or without, whatever freezes our hearts, we belong to the God whose love for us and the world cannot be stopped by anything, not even death.  The one who says, “Take heart, it is I, do not be afraid,” who brings us into the safety of the boat, who has entered our existence and, as one of us, has passed through even death to love us and the world.

Here’s the wonderful thing:  If we are “Littlefaiths”, if our weakness of faith isn’t a hindrance to God’s work, what astonishing things can we expect God to do through and with us?  If Peter and Elijah were who they were with tiny faith, well, that’s something to think about.  If they were told not to be afraid so that they, with their little faith, could not just be freed from fear but continue to be vessels of God’s power and grace in the world, well, what does that say about us?

Two Sundays from now we will hear Jesus say this to Nathanael, inviting him to follow: “you will see greater things than these.”  That’s God’s promise, that through the children of God the healing of the world will happen, even through us, even with our little faith.

And that’s a marvel to consider.

In the name of Jesus.  Amen